


Fog

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Amateur Deductions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Greg, Pining John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: There are misunderstandings about the complex dynamics between Sherlock, John and Greg. The Reichenbach Fall changes everything, and Greg and John make decisions that will take them out of London for a while.The prequel to Confusion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to Confusion. You can start at the start of this, then continue chronologically into Confusion, or read Confusion first and go back to this to understand what happened before all that.

John had few memories of the time immediately after the Fall. The days up to it were a blur of motion, Sherlock in motion; his clearest recollections were of motion. Running, swirling, Sherlock throwing that rubber ball against the wall at Bart’s, again and again and again.

And afterward? Nothing.

Nothing moved fast. Everything was slow motion, like underwater, thick and quiet as though his ears were blocked with his own pounding heart, the horrified spasm of his muscles prohibiting speed.

At some point he’d been sitting in his chair at home, staring at Sherlock’s chair as though with the power of his mind alone he might make the man appear. Mrs. Hudson, forever hovering anxiously, a Kleenex poking out of her sleeve to go with the permanently red eyes and nose, had entered, knocking lightly on the door. As though John might mistake her for someone else.

For Sherlock.

“John?” she’d said tentatively, and a wave of guilt washed over him. She’d borne a lot of his anger, the spurts that had come out around the edges of his poorly maintained emotional levee. After Afghanistan it had been a perfect defence, rarely allowing a flash of emotion out; now, though, it was full of weak spots after standing abandoned for so long.

He’d not had to guard himself with Sherlock in the same way. He and Sherlock had protected each other, and John could be himself. The anger, the fiery rage of loss and bitterness after Afghanistan had been gone by then, pushed out by the rush of adrenalin every time Sherlock had swept into the room and announced, “a case, John!” as though it was the most exciting thing in the world.

Which it had been.

Every time.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?” John had answered, resolving to be kinder and more patient. She was doting over him like his mother never had, and he had only short words and stomping to reward her. Shame on him.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is here for you,” she’d told him. John closed his eyes. The last person he needed to see. Greg wrenched at his heart in way Sherlock never had, a way he never would have been capable of doing. Sherlock made John worry about overdoses and eating properly and telling someone before he ran off to investigate. Greg made John worry about how his hair looked and whether it was a stupid thing to do and how close was too close to stand to someone that was a friend but you wanted to be more. He didn’t want to see Greg.

Greg was grieving too, the voice in his head had reminded him. He knew Sherlock before you did, had done a lot for Sherlock. Had cared for Sherlock.

He’d loved Sherlock, John was quite sure. One drunken night in the pub, and the innuendo was enough for even a fairly drunk John to put the pieces together.

“D’you think you can ever really go from being friends to more?”

“Dunno,” John had replied. “I mean…I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Greg sighed. “You jus’ never know, until you know. But then he knows an’ iz all weird if he doesn’ wanna…”

“I know,” John replied. “Y’can’t go back.”

“Nope.” Greg had popped the ‘p’ like Sherlock always did and the two of them sank back into a sad contemplative silence.

John wasn’t a fool. The last thing he wanted to do was put himself between the two men he was closest to in the world, even if he was pretty sure one was asexual or celibate by choice. Greg had to either work it out for himself or ask John outright. John’s suppositions about Sherlock were not gossip.

But either way, Greg was grieving too.

“Thank you Mrs Hudson,” John said, opening his eyes, bracing to see Greg, broken for a man that wasn’t him.

“John,” Greg said when he entered. “Christ, you look….”

“Yeah, thanks,” John said, but the care behind his words had brought the hastily constructed levee down and he’d cried like a child, shoulders heaving. When Greg had sworn under his breath and awkwardly patted him on the back, John had resisted the urge to turn into his shoulder, to hold onto him and breathe him in deeply. Neither of them needed that right now. Things were complicated enough, with Greg’s job situation and Mycroft working so frantically to try and clear Sherlock’s name.

“Thanks,” John said finally, embarrassedly wiping his nose on his sleeve and mopping at his eyes. He took a deep breath and offered Greg a watery smile. “Tea?”

“Yeah,” Greg had said, swiping at the tears on his own cheeks. They’d sat on the sofa, neither wanting to sit in Sherlock’s chair, and the small talk had been excruciating. Greg touched on ‘how are you doing’ but the obvious answer of ‘terrible’ seemed too raw, so John faked a smile and replied, ‘yeah’, which was enough. John didn’t ask Greg about how he felt about Sherlock’s loss; his own eyes were red and he looked like he’d barely slept a wink in the forty or so hours since Sherlock had been gone.

“What about work?’ John asked.

Greg had shrugged as though it didn’t matter. It probably did, probably more than he wanted to admit, but in comparison, in comparison to losing the man he secretly loved, John thought, it wouldn’t matter at all. His heart broke slowly through their conversation, as Greg spoke of the internal investigation into his conduct, into each of the many cases Sherlock had helped with. John could see the humiliation as Greg’s professional conduct was called into question for every moment of his association with Sherlock.

“So yeah, I’ve gotta see the Super tomorrow, he’ll probably put me on leave ‘til things get sorted.”

“Shit, how long?” John asked.

Greg shrugged again. “Lawyer reckons six months, maybe.” He sighed. “Might go and stay with my sister. Can’t hang around in London for that long with nothing to do.”

John’s heart stuttered. “And where does she live?” he managed through the lump in his throat. No Greg? No Greg in London. Awkward as this was, the idea of not seeing Greg at all somehow added to the pain he thought was unending and impossible to endure.

“Aberdeen,” Greg said. “Married an Irishman and they’ve got a big farm, a few kids. Might make myself useful or at least escape the press.”

“Right,” John managed. So far away, and they weren’t close enough mates for him to come and visit, really. “Yeah, I thought I’d do the same,” he said casually. “My sister’s in Birmingham.”

“Not too far from here,” Greg had replied, but John had been too busy trying to keep his own expression neutral to read anything off Greg’s words. They’d exchanged a few more words, some ‘we should keep up’ sounds, and then Greg was gone.

It was worse than John had thought.

His best friend was gone. What a waste, his life cut short for one insane, vindictive arsehole like James Moriarty.

And the man he loved, who had loved his best friend, wouldn’t be here to share the grief, the loss and pain, and hopefully in time, the healing.

John sank quietly into his chair and allowed the tears to come. What was he going to do?

+++

Four months later, John received a letter. A proper, handwritten, hand addressed letter. It had been sent to Baker Street and forwarded, so it was over a week old by the time it reached him in Birmingham. He’d been expecting it, having only left Mrs. Hudson with a forwarding phone number. When she’d told him the return address – G. Lestrade, Green Farm, Aberdeen, John had had to stop the tremor in his voice before asking her to send it on to him. He’d checked the post impatiently every day until Harry had snapped at him. After that, he’d restrained himself, waiting until she collected the letters before asking, always offhand, always without looking.

Finally, it had arrived. John tore it open with trembling hands. Only a few lines, centred on the cheap lined paper; he’d probably had no idea what to say. The rough script still tugged at his heart.

 

_Hi John,_

_Hope you’re getting on alright. It’s quiet up here, except for the kids. It’s been good to clear my head and get away from London for a while. The Super has just let me know they’ve finally finished proving Moriarty was a fake and Sherlock was legitimate the whole time. I’m not relieved exactly but it means my job is waiting again. I’m retuning to London. I don’t know what your plans are but give me a call if you end up there again. We could grab a pint and catch up._

_Cheers,_

_Greg_

 

John stared at the words, blinking. There was so much information here his brain didn’t know where to begin. Mycroft had obviously been working hard to prove Moriarty’s falsehoods; Sherlock hadn’t even been able to find a crack so it would have taken more than the police to sniff out the deception. It was a relief, John realised, to know that the world would be able to appreciate the real Sherlock as the man he had been. It was a bigger deal than he thought it would be; he felt tears running down his face. Memories of Sherlock still flooded him at all hours of the day, from the sight of a honey jar (Harry had stopped buying it when John kept crying at the breakfast table) to the sound of a violin in an elevator. This time though it wasn’t a memory so much the knowledge that these memories were no longer tinged with the anger and bitterness of injustice. It was just…sadness now.

And Greg was returning to London. John read and reread those last lines, wondering if he was reading too much into them. Was Greg more hopeful than he wanted him to be? Or was it just a mate encouraging a mate to get in touch, as it appeared on the surface? Certainly, it would be odd if John returned to London and did not call Greg; they had been friends enough before all this. Unfortunately, John knew that although distance and time had taken the edge off his desire for Greg, it still smouldered there, waiting for one look in person to spark it back to life. He would have to seriously consider how closely he could remain in contact with someone he still held a candle for, when that person held a candle for his own dead friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Returning to London had been easier than John expected. He had gone to see Mrs. Hudson of course – sat with her eating scones and drinking tea – but balked at the idea of even climbing the stairs to 221b.

“I…I think I’ll find a place of my own,” he’d stammered, apologetic and embarrassed. “I’m sure Mycroft will deal with all Sh…all the things still up there. If you wanted to let it out again, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” she’d replied, shocked at the suggestion. “Sherlock’s brother pays the rent for the time being. I’m having the downstairs flat fixed up, though, if you want to…”

He’d politely declined – it wasn’t nearly ready, and he needed somewhere immediately. And further from Sherlock, which he didn’t say but they both knew was true.

As luck would have it, Sarah had no work for him at his old clinic, but she knew one that was desperate for someone to come in full time – do the daily grind, as Sarah had put it. John jumped at the chance, offering to begin the next day. With that sorted, he’d walked into an estate agent and spent the afternoon looking at flats. Offering an ‘incentive’ to the agent hadn’t hurt her enthusiasm, and by the end of the day, John had signed a lease for a small flat halfway between work and Baker Street.

He couldn’t let go completely, not yet.

The next week was weird, partly because it was so mundane. John moved into his little flat – sparsely furnished, cold in the evenings when the heating failed to kick in. He rose in the morning, drank his tea, went to work all day and came home. A bland array of ear infections, colds and the occasional problem ‘down there’ as one elderly lady informed him. Nothing flashy. Nothing exciting.

Just existence.

It was all he could ask for really, now that Sherlock was gone. He’d come to accept it, sitting on his new sofa in the cold and quiet. There was nothing he could do about that. The whisper of an idea was curling around his brain, and it took facing the upcoming weekend – no work, no friends to fill the impending hours for John to face it. He could call Greg. It had been months since they’d seen each other, or had any contact except Greg’s letter. John wondered how his friend was travelling. He wondered if Greg was back in London already – it was quite possible John had beaten him back, having left Birmingham the day after Greg’s letter arrived. Where was Greg living? Did he still harbour affection for Sherlock?

What were John’s chances?

He felt ashamed of himself the moment the thought had made itself known. Greg was _grieving_ , for fuck’s sake. John couldn’t waltz in and try to seduce him, or even offer him anything more than friendship, assuming Greg wanted even that. It might be too painful, John without Sherlock. And that was assuming John was prepared to be friends with Greg, when it was so bloody apparent he was still in love with the bloody man. The thought ate at John as he stared at the telly, veering between ‘call him’ and ‘leave him alone’. When his phone rang, John picked it up and answered without thinking.

“’lo?”

“John?” The voice was immediately familiar. John forgot about the telly.

“Greg.”

“Yeah…hi.”

“Hi.” John replied, wincing at the awkward exchange.

“So are you…where are you?” Greg asked hesitantly.

John frowned. “At home. I mean, I’m in London.” His face grew hot. “Just came back last week.”

“Right.” Greg drew out the word as though weighing up speaking again.

“Fancy a pint?” John found himself asking. Fuck. He didn’t even know if Greg was back in London yet.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, relief in his voice. “Where are you staying? Baker Street?”

“No,” John said, impressed he’d managed to keep his voice steady. “Close, though. Red Lion?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Half an hour? See you there.”

When he arrived at the pub, John was surprised to see Greg carrying a large hold-all.

“What’s with the bag?” John asked.

“Just got back today,” Greg told him, still gripping the bag.

“What? Where are you staying?” John asked, confused.

“Um, not sure yet,” Greg admitted. “Was hoping to crash with Sally but she’s just shacked up with someone new so…” John could hear the shrug. “Hotel tonight, I’ll look around in the morning.”

“You could crash at my place,” John’s mouth took on a life of its own, definitely making that offer without consulting John’s brain, which was now screaming silent protest. “I mean, I have a sofa,” he added lamely, hoping the prospect of a night on a sofa would be too much to consider.

“Really?” Greg said. “That would be great, I mean…” he laughed awkwardly. “Hotels are expensive, and I’ve had my stuff in storage so it all adds up, you know.”

“Yeah,” John replied. “Look, why don’t we grab a sixer instead of here?”

“Sure,” Greg said immediately.

The walk was largely quiet, stopping to pick up the beer, neither even attempting small talk to fill the silence.

When they arrived at John’s building, Greg’s phone rang.

“Fuck, it’s my sister. Go up, I’ll meet you there.”

“2A,” John reminded him, leaving Greg to talk to his sister.

What the fuck was I thinking? John asked himself as he walked up the stairs alone. Terrible bloody idea. Why would you invite him to stay at your place?  John chastised himself all the way to his door, jiggling the key as he’d learned to do. The flat was tidy, he thought as he glanced around, not that Greg would care. He’d seen Baker Street at its worst, he’d hardly care. John collected blankets and a spare pillow for something to do while he waited. He spent the rest of the time pacing nervously, wondering what to say. Wondering what Greg would say.

Finally, there was a knock at his door. Three knocks in quick succession. Generic, but exactly as Greg used to do. John shook his head. He’d never stop analysing stuff like that, he thought to himself.

“Hey,” he greeted Greg, who looked exhausted and gorgeous. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, bringing a large bag with him.

“No problem,” John answered noncommittally.

When Greg dropped his bag and turned to him, John drank in the sight of his face in the light at last. Those warm brown eyes were tired, but it was the tired of a long day’s travel. The ingrained tiredness of the overworked policeman was gone. He looked fitter, too, John thought, though that could be his imagination. Before he could instruct his eyes not to stare, Greg took one step in and grabbed him in a hug. Startled, John took a beat to return the gesture. He was still flustered when Greg didn’t let go after the usual length of time for a hug; uncertain, John stood still, arms still wrapped around the solid body that had presented itself. God, he was muscular, John couldn’t help thinking. He felt a little self-conscious for a moment, knowing the height of his fitness was long gone.

“Good to see you,” Greg said, muffled a little by John’s shoulder. Finally, he released John, clapping him again on the shoulder and looking, really looking at him from arms’ length.

“You…you too,” John managed. “How was the farm?”

“Productive,” Greg grinned. He pulled the six pack of beer from his bag and passed one to John. They arranged themselves on the sofa, beers in hand.

“Kids good?” John asked.

“Yeah. Feisty little beggars. They were working rings around me, I’m telling you,” Greg said. “It was great to spend some proper time up there with them, though.”

“I thought you’d be catching up on sleep,” John said.

“Well that too,” Greg admitted. “Not all work. Plenty of lazy afternoons, kids at school, when Uncle Greg needed a bit of a kip.”

John grinned at the endearing image of Greg slouched on the sofa snoring lightly in the afternoon light. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you had a good break.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, twisting his beer can in his hand. “It was pretty tough there for a bit before.”

“It was,” John said, unsure if they were going to talk about Sherlock or not.

“What about you?” Greg asked, sending relief coursing through John. Not Sherlock, then. Not yet.

They talked for a while about their months away from London, their respective sisters and the awkwardness of living in someone else’s house indefinitely.

“So you’re back at the clinic, then?” Greg asked John. The beers were finished – good thing he’d only brought a sixer, John thought to himself. His head was swimming after so many months in his sister’s dry house.

“A new one, but the same thing,” John replied. “Not that exciting, but it pays the bills.”

“True,” Greg agreed. A silence fell, and John was puzzled. He had the impression Greg wanted to say something, but he had no idea what it was. There was so much they hadn’t talked about this evening – Sherlock, what happened at Bart’s, that drunken night of almost-confession – and John didn’t want to open any of those cans of worms right now.

“Well, I’m for bed,” John said, breaking the silence. “Sofa’s all yours, mate. Stay as long as you like.”

“Cheers, John, I really appreciate this,” Greg said sincerely.

“Bathroom’s in there, give me a few minutes and it’s yours,” John said. They smiled at each other (was that weird? It felt weird) and John made his way to bed. He was distracted again as he brushed his teeth, took a piss and stripped off, pulling on pyjama bottoms and a long sleeved t-shirt. He’d given his better blankets to Greg, so with any luck he wouldn’t be cold.

Rolling into bed, John stared at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Greg getting ready for bed. The beer made his head a bit fuzzy, and he closed his eyes, hoping for a quiet night.

+++

It was not John, in the end, but Greg who broke the quiet of the flat.

“NO!”

John was out of bed and staring at the door before the sound had faded from the blackness. His heart was pounding and it took all the concentration he had to ground himself here instead of getting lost in a nightmare of his own.

“Greg,” he muttered to himself, identifying the voice and giving himself a command at the same time.

Between his bed and the sofa was about ten steps. Enough time for Greg’s shouts to increase in volume and panic, his body thrashing around as he fought the nightmare.

“Greg,” John’s voice was as calm as he could make it. He didn’t touch the twitching shoulder nearest him, tempted though he was. “Greg, it’s John.”

“John…” Greg whimpered.

“Come on mate, you’re on my sofa. In London. Safe. Come on, Greg,” John continued. The sound of his voice seemed to be calming, so he kept talking, nonsense, winding his own name into it, hoping to draw Greg out of whatever nightmare he was in. It was agonisingly slow, but Greg did calm down eventually, his breathing steadying as John spoke in a low voice. He kept murmuring until Greg had settled completely, slow deep breaths huffing into the night.

Resisting the urge to touch, John whispered, “Good night,” and padded back to bed. This might not be as good an idea as he’d thought.

+++

In the end, Greg stayed over a week. He found a place close to Scotland Yard and signed a lease, but a high profile murder made it too difficult to actually move until the following weekend, when John could help lugging boxes.

Things were both more awkward and less awkward than John would have thought. He and Greg were good roommates in that they were easy going, considerate men. Both worked hard and were happy enough with a take away or easy pasta dinner midweek. When the shit had hit the fan, John made leftovers for Greg, and Greg thanked him and washed the dishes.

It worked.

But at the same time, John felt an undercurrent tugging their dynamic slightly off kilter. His desire for Greg had not abated in the months they’d been apart, and the occasional glimpse of skin under a t-shirt, and the odd intimacy of Greg’s washbag sitting in John’s bathroom wrenched at his heart. He wanted to say something – but what? It was still not that long since Sherlock’s death, and Greg was the only real friend John had. He was the only one who understood what Sherlock was like to be around.

There were times when the whisper of an idea crossed John’s mind. Greg would watch him laugh at something, and a flash of sadness would show. When they sat together to watch the football, Greg was the first to slump into the middle, bicep pressed to John’s as though it didn’t matter. Greg remembered John’s pet hates, and how he had his tea. John dismissed each one as his overactive imagination, seeing more than was actually there. But there was something else, something harder to explain away.

Greg dreamed about John.

More than that, he had nightmares about John, about something happening to John. It happened four times in the ten nights he stayed with John; the first time he couldn’t remember if Greg had said his name, but the other times, Greg was clearly trying to defend John, or watching something horrific happen to him. As much as John tried to tell himself it was just a dream, just the nightmare of a man who’d lost the one he loved and now feared for the only friend he really had, it didn’t quite ring true.

 

The next day John woke early, despite the interruption to his sleep. He felt borderline hungover; it was probably the sleep as well as the beer – only the second time they’d indulged, but it had gone to his head just as fast. Stretching, he registered the lack of sound and figured Greg was still asleep. Breakfast would be a welcome wake up, John figured, and besides he was starving. Throwing on his dressing gown, John headed to the kitchen. He knew he had eggs and bacon, a perfect almost-hangover meal.

Sure enough, the smell of bacon woke Greg. Wordlessly, John passed him aspirin and water, then a mug of strong tea.

“Christ,” Greg groaned, rubbing his face. “I could get used to this.”

John’s heart skipped a beat at the deep tone of Greg’s morning voice. He already felt guilty enough about standing watching Greg for a few moments before putting on the breakfast. Greg was usually up before him, and besides, this was the last morning Greg would be on his couch. He tried not to think about it.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” John said. “Better get yourself up, mate. Gotta get you moved in.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, rolling over and standing up. He stretched, the movement pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, showing off the skin above his low riding boxers.

John couldn’t help staring. How could he not, with Greg practically putting on a show right in his living room?

“I’ll just jump in a shower.”

Greg’s voice tugged John out of his head, and he raised his eyes to Greg’s, knowing the guilt was written all over his face. To his astonishment, Greg raised his eyebrows and smirked before turning to saunter off to the bathroom.

What the fuck, thought John. Was that….no. He would not indulge in lurid fantasies about his friend-slash-ex-roommate. Probably. For today at least. He concentrated on not burning the bacon, ignoring the idea of Greg being in the shower only a few short metres away.  

They ate at John’s tiny table, knocking knees and grinning at each other. It was odd, John thought, that on a morning they should be sad, neither could keep the grin from his face. There was something new, something different about the unspoken things today, but John wasn’t sure what it was exactly. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to broach the subject.

“I want to ask you something,” Greg said, his grin a little too wide to be completely free of panic.

John raised his eyebrows, heart thumping hard for some reason. “Go for it,” he said.

“Are you bi?”

John almost choked on his tea. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to swallow, then looked Greg in the face, knowing his eyes were hard and mouth set in a thin line. “Is this about Sherlock?”

“What?” Greg replied, eyes widening in shock. “Christ no, John.”

“It’s not?” John repeated, taking a moment to allow his anger to dissipate. “Then…”

“Will you please just answer the question?” Greg repeated. “Are you bi, John?”

“Yes,” John answered immediately. “I am.”

“Good.” Greg replied.

It took John a minute to sort through the pieces.

“Oh,” he said finally. “In that case, I should elaborate. My name is John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and I’m bi. And attracted to you.”

“Excellent,” Greg replied, and he leaned across the table to kiss John.

 _Finally,_ John thought.


	3. Chapter 3

When breakfast had finally been cleared away, it was nearly noon. They’d abandoned it at first, kissing and heavy petting being far more interesting, before coming back to it with gusto. The eating and tidying had been slowed by the newly handsy pair doing the eating and tidying; John was surprised but gratified by Greg’s obvious desire for him. It made it far easier to show his own unrestricted appreciation for Greg’s body when he knew it was reciprocated.

“Right, we need to go. Seriously, Greg,” John said, laughing and gasping as Greg moved his mouth along the tender skin behind John’s left ear.

“Oi!” he yelped, tugging his ear out of Greg’s mouth. “Behave, you.”

The admonishment was tempered with a grin and another kiss, which John kept short with great difficulty.

“Right. Seriously. We need to talk before we step outside.”

Greg stilled at this, as John knew he would.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly out, and the law of chance says that we will run into every single person we’ve ever met if we walk down this street holding hands without discussing this.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I doubt that’s exactly how the law of chance works, you know.”

“Whatever, you’re missing the point.”

Greg’s grin faded. “Yeah, I know. Things at work would probably be okay…”

“But?” John prodded him.

“But, and I’ll sound like a right shit to say this, I’d rather not go through it all until we know we’re going to last.” Greg looked as apologetic as his tone.

John reached up to kiss him, smiling into his eyes.

“Me too,” he said simply. “Sounds fine to me. Today, I’m just helping a mate move.”

Greg’s hands stole around to squeeze John’s arse. “Can I watch you move?”

“Christ, you’re not going to convince anyone if you can’t keep your hands off me,” John scolded him, the grin on his face not in the least bit convincing.

“Not my fault your arse is so irresistible,” Greg told him.

“Yeah, well…” John grumbled, allowing the shameless groping for another five seconds or so. “Come on, or you won’t be moved in at all by the time you have to be back at work.”

“What’s the incentive?” Greg asked.

“Depends,” John said. He looked at Greg, a sparkle in his eye. “Do you prefer to top or bottom?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his keys and opened the door, chuckling as Greg swiped at his arse on the way out.

+++

They’d taken two steps into the tiny, squalid flat and John had stopped. He had surveyed the tiny, dirty windows, the mouldy bathroom visible from the sleeping nook. “Nope,” he said, turning around and hustling Greg out of there. Five minutes with the landlady and she’d returned his deposit in full, scowling all the while. John had scowled right back.

Now, sitting at John’s kitchen table, it was Greg’s turn to scowl.

“Seriously, Greg, that is the shittiest flat I have ever seen. You can’t live there.” John said emphatically.

 “Yeah, well now I don’t have anywhere to live,” Greg pointed out grumpily. John had made tea, and they sat close again, though their legs tangled far more comfortably than at breakfast.

“You could live here,” John said without thinking.

Greg blinked at him. “What?”

“There are two bedrooms,” John pointed out, heart thumping as he reconsidered the wisdom of his offer. “Well, the second one is more like a large cupboard, but…”

“If I move in here, I will not be sleeping in the spare room,” Greg said. He still looked a little grumpy, John thought, though the idea had certainly sparked something in his face. “Don’t forget that I still haven’t had a chance to claim the incentive you offered earlier.”

John ignored the swoop of arousal at the idea. Both ideas. “If you move in here, one of us has to get a girlfriend,” he said. At the look on Greg’s face he snorted. “I know, not exactly my best plan ever,” he said. “But it’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.”

“The circumstances?” Greg asked.

“Well, ever since you mentioned the incentive, something in my pants has…swelled.”

“Really,” Greg replied, smirking.

“Yeah. I’m a doctor, and I’m telling you, I’m gonna need a hand with this one.”

“I didn’t think you’d go for doctor role play,” Greg said, still smirking. He leaned back, and John felt a stockinged foot slide up his leg, toes pressing into the bulge between his legs.

“Christ, I don’t,” John groaned, bucking into the contact, “but I can’t keep talking about girlfriends when I’m thinking about you.”

“Well that’s flattering,” Greg replied mildly, his toes continuing to work at John’s groin. “Why don’t we take this into the bedroom?”

“Now that’s a good idea,” John breathed. “We’ll figure out the rest later?”

“Much later,” Greg agreed, pulling John to his feet. “I have plans for that swelling, gorgeous.”

“Yes, you’re definitely moving in here,” John said as he followed Greg. That impulsive offer was already turning out better than he’d expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there we go! If you've been reading in order of publication, we're done! Thank you for reading, for your patience as I worked out the bugs in this prequel - I hope you've enjoyed it.  
> If you're reading chronologically, get read to see how the re-emergence of Sherlock brings new information to light. <3


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